Exit Seraphim and Satan's Men
by deemn
Summary: The hotel is a shell, collapsed in on itself and down into the main plaza.  Through the aching gaps in the adobe, she can see that Montoya's pink stucco palace is also in ruins.  She thinks she smells burning roses but her body lies to her, on occasion.
1. Chapter 1

**EXIT SERAPHIM AND SATAN'S MEN**

Rated: **T**

Disclaimer: Queen of Swords is property of Paramount and Fireworks.

Notes: Title from Sylvia Plath's "Mad Girl's Love Song". Bouchard was real. Marisa is one of the donas ["The Hanged Man"] and Pira is Enrique's wife ["Fever"]; Belen is the name I've given Enrique's daughter. Story written as short framed segments, like bulletins or war correspondence.

* * *

**PART ONE**

Padre Quintero is dead.

There is no service. There isn't time. There are the three beats between the moment she puts her two fingers to his still-warm wrist and the moment Bouchard's cannon sends the church bells toppling to the ground in cosmically symbolic cacophony. Three beats, in which she drops to her knees, whispers _in paradisum deducant te Angeli _and weeps for the small, sweet man who died as he did everything else: when no one was looking.

And then she runs, like everyone else, for her life.

* * *

Pira falls, quickly, dropping to the ground so suddenly that for a clenched, nauseous moment Tessa thinks _bullet, oh no not a bullet_ until the woman's feet scrabble against the well and Belen, beautiful big-eyed Belen, catches up to her mother and tugs her up, only to fall herself.

It wasn't a bullet, but it will be very soon, so Tessa veers from the straight course [_church to garrison, church to garrison, garrison is safety and guns, garrison_] and hoists the little girl into her arms, pushes Pira and screams for her to run faster, and Belen whimpers but holds tight during the whole sprint to the immense wooden doors that no sword can cut through.

Inside, she drops against a wall with Belen still clinging to her side, and a corporal hands her a water skin. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't measure the water against the mask. She makes Belen drink first, and when the child is sated she starts to guzzle.

"Puerto de Papa," Belen whispers, and Tessa chokes.

* * *

The men are all loading muskets and selecting swords, and though Marta's eyes forbid it across mountains of cotton gauze and linen wraps, she can't exactly say anything. So Tessa joins them, finds herself instinctively appalled by the state of the musket she picks up—-the stock isn't even properly aligned—-and realizes that her survival has had very little to do with her superior skill or charmed life state, and more to do with the inability of the Spanish court to get its act in gear.

The corporal who gave her water nods at her and tosses a twist of powder, but it's snatched out of the air by Montoya. The boy steps back, but he doesn't shrink, and she finds herself inordinately fond of him for that moment. Montoya is glaring at her, and starts to open his mouth when Grisham steps up, slaps another powder twist into her still-waiting hand and moves along the row with sabers.

She can't help but smirk, even around the scrap of paper between her teeth, and gives the ramrod a bit of a twirl before packing the powder down. Montoya stalks away to his brand new pistols.

* * *

Vera—-_of light_—-is taking a roll of sorts, and it's a new facet to the blonde, the sharpness and familiarity with which she speaks to _everyone_, even Marisa. They way they all respond with genuine respect and deference, even now, says something equally new about her people.

Too bad she can't focus on all the fuzzies that could give her because of the sheer enormity of the fact that she herself will be missing, and all sorts of bad things will occur from that. Marta catches on with one look, one helpless look that feels like being fifteen, and catches Vera's elbow. A murmur, quick lies, and Vera nods, moves right along.

It's the fear, there, in the moment that Vera takes whatever story Marta's concocted without a second thought. _Accounted for_, that's all that matters, all they have.

* * *

She stands in a row with the men, waiting as Grisham sends them to their posts. He glances at the uniforms before barking out a position, gives each serape a steady gaze before naming the soldier they're to follow and actually _ponders_ each waistcoat before pointing the way. Behind him, Montoya instructs the boys-—_children_ her mind screams _children at the slaughter_—-on reloading priority. Soldiers first, always. Then the dons. He says nothing about the campesinos. The boys know how their fathers shoot. She trusts them to put family first.

"If you fail to kill on two shots, stop shooting. Save the ammo for the men who know what they're doing. Load guns for those men, if you can't shoot." Grisham pivots on his toes. She's starting to see a reason for military procedure—empty props for those moments when you know you're going to die. "Do not fall off the banquette. If you fall, I will shoot you. Out of mercy. Or maybe for your stupidity."

"Padre! Padre Quintero!" Vera's call is insistent and so confident that she'll get a reply that it hurts Tessa to open her mouth.

"He's dead." It's a croak. She hasn't used her voice properly all day—whispers or screams, nothing in between—so she has to say it again. "He's dead."

Vera blinks at her. Belen whimpers in Pira's arms and little Hernan pulls his hat off, twists it between his powder-stained hands. She can't look, so she drops her eyes to the ground, moves toward the ladder. "Let's go," she mumbles at Grisham, and pulls a second musket over her shoulder.

* * *

The view from the banquette is stunning. Stunning, as in has rendered her unable to comprehend anything.

Her town is _gone_.

The hotel is a shell, collapsed in on itself and down into the main plaza. Through the aching gaps in the adobe, she can see that Montoya's pink stucco palace is also in ruins. She thinks she smells burning roses but her body lies to her, on occasion.

The church bells lie on their side in ginger-colored dust. She's glad the padre is dead. He'd been so angry when he found out she'd _stood_ on the _altar_ and "gallivanted" on the bell rope—

Her throat seizes. Grisham just glances at her and hands her a handkerchief. "Always a lot of dust with cannon fire. Breathe through that." He pulls a blue kerchief up from underneath his tunic, settles it over his nose and resettles his musket.

Small mercies. "In paradisum," she repeats uselessly, and settles in to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Grisham's patience when he has a gun in his hands is endless. She's ready to fire at the well if she has to. Bouchard hasn't advanced from the very edge of town. It's been hours—at least, the sun's moved millions of miles—and she can't figure it out.

"Stop. Fidgeting."

Amazing, how being a brat becomes default when the wolves are at the gate. She shifts around one more time, just enough to kick him in the shin. He moves his eyes from the sight for one moment, one glare, before resetting.

"Why hasn't he moved?"

He glances at her again, lifts his chin and sets the musket aside, gestures for her to do the same. He pulls her over to him and ignores her yelp, makes her look through his embrasure. All she sees is dust and dust and dust. "The drop off. He has to debate whether he needs the cannons to finish the town. It'll take as many men to get them up and over that shelf as to take us down."

She looks back towards their feet, sees Marta spooning up soup for someone—Marisa, maybe. So little Mateo in her arms. "Will he kill everyone?"

"Just combatants and gachupinos."

"So everyone."

He sighs. "Yep."

* * *

200 men are marching up towards Montoya's ruins. Grisham calls the number back, puts a powder twist between his teeth. "Wouldn't mind having your Brit around for this. Damn good shot."

200 men are marching up around Montoya's ruins. "Don't."

200 men are swirling around the fountain and stomping adobe brick into more ginger dust that will coat the inside of her throat and her lungs and the whole wide world— "Where'd he go, anyway?"

Focus. Focus. Focus. Pay attention, stay alive. "Home."

Grisham grunts. 200 men fall into a long box that stretches across the back of the church. 10 men ride up behind them. "No loss. Well. Except for the shot."

"Shut up and shoot, Grisham."

* * *

She can recognize Bouchard because he rides the white horse. And once she figures that out, it's all she can focus on. He reminds her of Napoleon. Maybe just because he's French.

Bouchard rides up close—close enough for someone with a steady aim and a good gun to kill him. He's flanked by two riders. No one takes the shot. "Coronel Luis Ramirez Montoya!" He's read the name off a piece of paper, she sees. It makes everything seem so… fruitless. Helpless. Less. "You are ordered by la Republica Argentina to stand down and hand over all europeo inhabitants of Santa Helena. If you refuse to comply with these orders, we will be forced to open fire."

Montoya is gachupin. So is Gaspar. And Vera and Marisa and technically Marta, too. Bouchard will make them kneel. Will he decapitate them? The Terror wasn't so very long ago. Maybe it will be a bullet to the brain. But bullets are precious commodities. Maybe he will hang them all.

Tio had told her, once, that Mama had planned to go back to Spain while pregnant, but the war with the British and all the ships sinking into the sea… She is criolla and she can't, for the life of her, understand why.

* * *

Grisham is suddenly scrambling backwards, sliding on his belly to the ladder. The goddamn coward. _Coward_. "Grisham! You bastard, what the hell—"

He jabs a finger forward. "Corney!" he hisses, and is down the ladder.

She looks out harder, the handkerchief pressing into her slightly open mouth. And there he is. Peter, sweet, handsome Peter who'd bought her dinner and danced like a gentleman soldier should.

She has a shot. Bouchard and _Corney_ and whoever the third man is—and it would just make her day if she knew him, too—are waiting for a reply, for the gates to open and a flood of victims to come rushing gratefully out. She has a shot.

There's a tug on her foot. "Come down," Grisham whispers.

"I have a shot," she whispers back.

It tempts him, too, she can see it, but he shakes his head. "Orders. Let's go."

* * *

The corporal of whom she is inordinately fond is there, waiting next to Montoya. "Lima, tell her."

He faces her, nods somewhat deferentially. "They're positioned just out of our firing range. 70 meters. We can shoot but it'll be useless."

"So they can't hit us, either?"

Grisham shakes his head. "Last reports on him said he'd hired British mercenaries. Riflemen." She doesn't understand. "They have rifles and are well trained to use them. If you or I stand up right there," and he points to their banquette, "they can shoot us in the chest. If they're very good, in the face."

The sun is shining. How… wrong. "What do we do?"

Montoya looks up at the sun. He must be thinking the same thing she is. "Blow up the church."

Or he's waiting for the lightning bolt. "Right." _Padre Quintero._ "No."

"The padre will be your excuse, should you be caught."

God.

* * *

Lima doesn't raise his eyes when she asks the question and Grisham won't stop laughing. Montoya sneers at the expletives and she wishes she could just punch him the face.

They're settling now-sometimes she really can't deal with men-and Lima's whispering. "He was-the idea was for the anniversary. Of Morelos's execution. To… to attack. He started stockpiling powder for our guns. There are muskets in there, too. A few."

She isn't quite following because Lima is speaking blasphemy. "Padre Romero… was stocking weapons… in the church… to stage a revolution."

Lima nods. "He-he was trying to coordinate with Las Llomas."

She closes her eyes and thinks of the angels, wonders what this means for their existence. She knows better than to zero in on "our guns" or the glaring obviousness of why Lima knows these things. "All right. By the grace of God, there is enough powder in the church to blow it up." She throws a finger out towards the 200 hostiles. "How do we get there?"

* * *

It's almost dark enough for them to move; Bouchard's men have simply dug in where they are, rifles across their laps as they circle around small fires. Grisham cleans his gun for the 14th time and Montoya clears his throat. "Now, Senorita, you see why it is important that I have a cannon."

She can't believe he has the audacity to bring this up now. "So you can fire on Bouchard, and Bouchard can fire on you, and everyone can die? Yes, sounds crucial to me." Grisham snorts, then coughs to cover it up. Montoya sneers at him, and _how bad is it_? "Tell you what. We both live through this, and I'll get you one for your birthday."

Even Lima laughs, now, and she understands that they're all going to die.


	3. Chapter 3

Grisham's apartment is empty of guns; the racks of muskets are split open on the floor. It's irrelevant—what good are regulation muskets against British riflemen—but Grisham stops, gazes down at the split wood, toes a plank aside. "They took my money," he says—quietly. They can't be caught.

She's already over by the window when he says it, barely hears the words but gets it quickly. He'd stashed his savings in the racks—probably the baseboard. "How much?"

He drops to a crouch, pushes a few more pieces of wood as if he's making sure. "Enough to leave." He pushes his hair up, tugs at the collar of his tunic, then stands up. "Gonna blow them sky high," he grins, walking towards her, and climbs out the window.

* * *

She'd left her sash and corset back at the garrison; he'd left his hat. He'd suggested she leave her sword, but the gauche persuaded him otherwise. Now she's starting to understand why; the line of silver is the only thing that could attract attention to them right now.

"Should've left—" and he wheezes.

Her elbow digs into his side a little harder. "Shut up."

20 paces to the left, two of Bouchard's men are standing guard. Grisham saw them first and pulled her back into the shadows of the patio. Pulled her against him, rather, and back into the shadows of the patio. She hopes he's up against a cactus.

The two men are speaking in a mix of Spanish and English. She turns her head but Grisham puts his hand over her mouth as soon as her lips part. "They're talking about spreading out," he barely whispers into her ear. "Sending half the men back towards Montoya's."

She stays still and waits for an order.

* * *

He sends her across first, when the two lookouts return to their main circle for instructions. Two paces, dive into the cover provided by the fallen bells. Three seconds, wait and listen, then over into the small hollow of the north church. Grisham comes quickly after, waits a little longer at the bells. He didn't crouch like she did; he's flat on his belly, keeping everything light-colored in the dirt.

"Hey!"

He looks at her, doesn't move. The wall at her back is icy cold; she has to tell herself to breathe.

"Un puro. Y cerveza! Y… ah… jamon. Y un puro!"

She almost giggles; Grisham grins, teeth glinting at her, then scrambles up and across. The hollow isn't quite big enough for two; they move into the doorway. "Wouldn't mind a cerveza myself—"

"Shut up!" But he's grinning and she is, too-then stops when she realizes that her back is against the same wall as Padre Romero's. She hadn't locked the door when she'd fled from his body. Grisham, still grinning, goes first.

* * *

They don't stop for the padre; Grisham glances left, hesitates for a moment, then keeps walking straight into the nave. "Lima said the powder was in the crypt."

It just gets worse and worse. "With the bodies?" It comes out as a whisper.

He grins. "Maybe. Scared?"

She doesn't have to respond; he's walked square into a pew. "Mm. Guess God doesn't like your attitude."

He glares at her and follows her to the stairs.

* * *

There are fourteen barrels arranged in two clusters in the center of the vault. She won't admit breathing a sigh of relief, in exchange for not seeing Grisham uncross his fingers. "Can you lift one?" he asks, shifting one away from the first cluster.

"Think so." She takes the second cluster, slides a barrel across the sand-strewn stone. He's already hefted one onto his shoulder. "Where do you want to put them?"

She shouldn't have asked; she realizes that instantly. "Under the altar." He's still grinning; she prays for lightning. "Told you, sweetheart. Sky high." The barrel isn't too heavy, and she really doesn't see a choice. "Need you to start breaking open the boxes."

Boxes? She looks at where he's pointing: the rows of sarcophagi. "What?"

He's carrying another barrel towards the altar, doesn't look up: "Break them open. Bodies make good explosives."

Good God. He can't—that's sacrilege! "Are you serious?"

He grunts, glares at her and stalks past her to the far end of the crypt, where two adzes are leaning against the wall. "Fine. Finish moving these. Do _not_ make a spark." He pauses in front of the first sarcophagus and grins. "Sorry, bub," he chuckles, before smashing in the top.

* * *

It occurs to her when Grisham puts the adze down. His feet are surrounded by small chunks of stone. "We… don't have a fuse."

He stands still for a minute, then nods. "Yep."

Maybe he's stupid. "How are we going to set it off without a fuse?"

He shrugs. "Drop a match."

"That's suicide."

"Yep."

Oh. "I—-um. Fight for it?"

He chuckles. "Gee, wonder who'd win."

"Grisham—-"

"You remember last time one of us *had* to die?" She thinks of the mine, of Xs and Os, of pushing her sash between his lips. "You're the hero. I'm the soldier. One of us is a little rarer than the other."

"You're not a soldier, you're a psychopath. You're just as special."

He's still smiling. "Better get a move on."

"Don't be stupid, we can make a fuse out of your shirt—-"

"It'll take too long to burn. They gave us three hours. We're on three and a half now. More time and they won't be ready."

She crosses her arms, folds her lips. "You're an idiot."

"I'll miss you, too." He takes three matches out of his pocket, nods at the stairs. "Go on." She ducks her head and goes, is almost up the stairs when she hears, "Hey. Do I get a last request?"

Arrogant, lecherous bastard. She turns, looks at his grin, shakes her head. _He's going to die, Tessa. He's going to die for you_. "You bastard," she whispers, and comes down the stairs again.

He actually seems surprised by the kiss, but only for a second. She'd tried to block out their prior kiss—-he was sloppy, drunk, tasted like stolen wine—-but it's returning with this one: how his hands know where to press, where to pull, how he teases and then takes. How his mouth feels like he's laughing, even when his body proves he's not.

She breaks first but doesn't step away, can't quite focus yet. "I was actually gonna ask for you to take care of my horse."

"Liar."

"Yep." He pulls her in again and she lets him, for a few more seconds, before gently pushing.

His finger is under her mask.


	4. Chapter 4

Chin up, jaw straight. She waits.

He smiles, lets his hand drop. Her mask hasn't moved. "Just in case of miracles," he says, as if that means anything. "You should go."

She doesn't look back, doesn't say anything else. Pauses, briefly, before the Virgin and asks for mercy for him, because he's going to die a hero, even if it doesn't work.

* * *

When the church blows, it looks like the clouds are on fire.

Bouchard's surviving men run away from the flying adobe and closer to the garrison. Her people are waiting on the banquette and pick the remaining 100 off like it's thinning carrots—-not easy, but thorough and methodical. She closes in from behind, surprising almost ten men before they can properly aim at her. The dust helps; a blind sword is more destructive than a blind pistol.

The dust also means that when they die, they choke on air while bleeding out from the gut. She still has Grisham's kerchief over her nose and mouth; more than once, she thinks she's vomited into it. More than once, it catches the spray of blood from her victim. She prays for a bullet to the brain, at least twice.

It's over in an hour. Over. Bouchard and Corney flee with the explosion and a handful of soldiers; she toys with the idea of going after them, but there are cannon to deal with and it's too risky. Lima is the only one who comes to her and comments on the explosion. "Bigger than I thought."

"Sky high," she replies, looking at the flames.

* * *

Clean up is rough.

The garrison plaza is covered in bodies; almost 150 of Bouchard's mercenaries, about 35 of her people. There is a rosary beside the well and it's finding that, the smooth wooden beads covered in bloody dust, that does it. She slumps down and cries, silently, between the bodies of Morena Bilbao and Adolfo Murrieta. They were going to be married in the winter. Adolfo was going to Mexico City, to study law.

She's not sure how long she's kneeling there before Marta comes and holds her, hugs her, wipes away her tears. She cries harder for a few minutes, imagines a pike like the one Padre Hidalgo's head is on, can't get enough air. Marta just holds her, doesn't say anything, and air comes back after a little while.

When she looks up, she seems Lima directing people away from her, towards the church, telling them to start searching. He looks back at her, nods quickly, and keeps shouting.

* * *

Montoya is dead. His body was face down in the dirt when she came in; the bullet entered at the back of his neck. There's no way to tell where the bullet came from and she doesn't see a need to ask. No one's crying, but they've taken his body inside, to be embalmed and buried with respect. Her people are even preparing to bury Bouchard's men properly. Gaspar is deciding which section of land would be the best graveyard.

Her legs give out again, and this time it's Vera who comes to her, with strips of salt pork and water, a moist towel to clean herself off. It's Vera who wipes the grit off her face—careful around the mask—while she eats and drinks, who says nothing but squeezes her hand before going to the next fighter wandering in.

It's Vera who stays calm and focused when the shouts go up outside the walls for a doctor, when, twenty minutes later, four soldiers stagger in with a stretcher bearing Grisham's heavily battered but heavily breathing body. She, on the other hand, can't begin to breathe.

* * *

Belen comes to her just as two men carry Pira's body inside the barracks; she winds her little arms around her neck and sobs. It almost knocks her over, she's so tired, but she holds on, strokes the little girl's hair, whispers yet another prayer. As if God would listen to her now.

Lima comes and tells her, sits next to her against the wall while the uninjured bring in the dead. "He's a bastard, for sure, but he's a bastard we know. You know how things get backed up and screwed up in Monterey; we don't want an outsider—"

She stops him, holds up a hand and breathes deeply. Belen is asleep in her lap, sobbed into exhaustion. "He helped you load the church, didn't he?"

Lima folds his lips, shrugs one shoulder. "He didn't stop us."

She feels bile at her throat and salt at her eyes. "Christ, Lima, he's not for you, he's against Montoya—"

"Montoya is dead." Lima's voice is hard, his baby face sharp. "Grisham had a piece of wood—looks like a barrel stave—in his side," and he draws his hand horizontally from his navel, "_como asi_. Juarez got it out, stitched him up."

She wonders if he stood next to the barrels and dropped the match, or fled and threw it behind him, tried to escape. Knowing Marcus, he tried to outrun it. "Why are you telling me this? We did what we had to do, we lived through doing it—"

"He's asking to see Tessa." Funny how it doesn't even feel different, how out of all the explosions in the past two days, this one is almost meaningless. Lima's eyes are bird-bright, almost hopeful.

She feels Belen's weight shifting, looks up to see Marta lifting the little girl away. She's about to protest, but Marta gets it, all of it, shakes her head with a small lift to the corners of her mouth, like she's proud.

So she smiles, and lifts the mask.

END


End file.
